


A Waking Nightmare

by IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow



Category: Hannibal (TV), The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: Crossover, F/F, F/M, Graphic depictions of dreams that involve Hannibal killing people, Not a Bedannibal fic per say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 09:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14017416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow/pseuds/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow
Summary: Bedelia du Maurier is presumed dead, Hannibal is on the run (again), and Stella Gibson is having nightmares.





	A Waking Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by @Electric-Couple's tumblr prompt for March.

_The room is hot, so achingly hot, and her clothes are stuck to her flesh, weighed down by sweat. She can nearly taste the salt in the air, feel it grimy on her skin. Her eyes are burning and the air is stifling-dark, and yet she can see the waves of heat. They remind her of trips to the beach with her father in the blistering sun, but no. This was different. There were no cool, strong arms hoisting her up into the air before tossing her into the cold, cold relief of the ocean. Instead, she felt the temperature rise, and her skin began to feel like a thin piece of leather. Suddenly, she knew where she was, and she knew what would come next. Her organs would shut down, and her blood would boil until it became gunk in her soon defunct veins. She was being slowly cooked alive._

Stella Gibson woke with a start, gasping for air and grasping at the soaked sheets around her, fighting to remove them from her body. As they fell to a heap on the floor, she took in ragged breaths, nearly choking, as she reached for the cold glass of water near her bedside, hoping it would chill her insides. Once her heart settled to a level below ‘actively sprinting,’ she grasped for her journal, the cool air of early December morning worsening the dampness she felt as her silk nightshirt clung to her back. She scribbled illegibly.

_Hot. Being slowly cooked. Darkness. Pain._

Her breathing finally settled, before picking up again in fast, short bursts as she allowed herself to cry. Fat, hot tears slid down her face, before Stella reached up to wipe them away. Her sister Bedelia was missing, presumed dead; her cooked leg left rotting on her dining room table, half-eaten. Memories of teenage recitals, and Bedelia being swooped around by their father in a Waltz while she waited for her turn dance around in her head. The memory becomes warped briefly by the nightmare from the night before: Bedelia hobbling on one leg, a blood-soaked gown trailing behind her, as she’s swept around the dance floor by a smiling Hannibal Lecter.

Stella feels the vomit race up her throat and dashes to the bathroom, vomiting into the sink before she can even flip open the toilet lid. It’s all yellow bile-she hasn’t eaten anything sustainable in nearly two days, and she assumes it’s only the water and coffee that’s keeping her moving. She coughs a few more times to clear her throat, and begins to run the water to clear the sink as she hears a soft knock at the adjoining door of her hotel room.

“M’am,” Danielle Ferrington calls from the other side of the door. “Are you alright?” Stella pads across the carpeted floor of the bedroom to reach the door, unlocking it. She knows Dani would persist no matter what she says through the door, so she’d rather simply let her in.

“I’m okay, Dani,” Stella whispers in the midst of clearing her throat again, “and please call me Stella.”

“Force of habit,” Dani says shrugging, making her way to Stella, who sits on the bed looking exhausted beyond her years. “You’re not okay, Stella,” Her brow furrows and her deep, expressive eyes are filled with concern and empathy. “It’s perfectly normal to be upset when you’ve lost-”

“We weren’t close,” Stella whispers softly, more to herself than to Dani. “Can you imagine that? _Twins,_ who didn’t even particularly like each other.” Dani is silent, knowing that Stella has more she needs to say. “and yet…I _begged_ her to come stay with me. I didn’t care about the FBI, or the potential damage to my career,” Stella nearly spits, repeating the reasons her sister refused, which echo around her head constantly, mocking her. “She was always there for me in her own way, and I couldn-” Stella stumbles over the last few words, before trying again. Her face is strained and her cheeks sallow. “I _couldn’t_ protect her and now-.” Stella doesn’t finish, leaving the sentence hanging. Dani wraps an arm around her, and tucks a strand of long blonde hair behind her ear. Stella swallows the large lump in her throat and returns her breathing to normal, collecting herself once again.

“M’am-Stella,” Dani corrects herself. “You haven’t told me why you asked me to come to France with you.” Dani questions. Although the body hadn’t been recovered, save a leg, Dr. Bedelia du Maurier was a psychiatrist in the United States. Initially, when Stella asked if she had time off available, Dani thought they would be spending it arranging funeral services for the unfortunate Doctor-not in Provence. The room is silent for a moment before Stella Gibson slides off the bed, and over to her black zippered carry-on. She flips the top open, and removes a small, thin, blood-red envelope, with only one sheet of paper inside.

“Once you nearly killed a man without restraint, Dani,” Stella whispers, her voice rough like gravel. She crosses the small room and hands the paper to Dani, who quickly scans over the short message. ‘ _How have you made division of yourself? An apple, cleft in two, is not more twin/ Than these two creatures.’_ Beneath the lines is a recipe for two servings of _Poulet de Provencal_.

“Hannibal Lecter is alive, and I believe my sister may be as well,” her eyes are stony and filled with resolve; her voice is determined, “I need you to help me kill him.”

**Author's Note:**

> Poulet de Provencal is a 'chicken' breast recipe from Provence, France. The quote Hannibal uses is from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, which is intended as a comedy, but I figured it would be befitting of Hannibal to use when taunting Bedelia's sister. 
> 
> Send me prompts at @ShadeQueenScully. I'm incredibly slow at fulfilling them, but I do try!


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